


Lullaby of the Peonies

by helloitskrisha



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Based on the Japanese Folktale "The Princess Peony", Bittersweet Ending, F/M, Fantasy, Fic Gift, Flower Spirit AU, Grief/Mourning, Hanahaki Disease, Romance, Sad Ending, Sadness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:34:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25203265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helloitskrisha/pseuds/helloitskrisha
Summary: Christine dreamed of marrying only for love, but circumstances have pushed her to settle for a marriage of convenience. Can she learn to be content with her betrothed or will she forever yearn for the mysterious Spirit she has loved for so long?(or, the AU where Erik is the spirit of a flower. Inspired by the Japanese folktale “The Princess Peony.”)
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Comments: 32
Kudos: 47





	Lullaby of the Peonies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ms_Myth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ms_Myth/gifts).



> Dedicated to Ms_Myth who wanted to see an E/C AU based on "The Princess Peony," a Japanese folktale about a princess who loves a flower spirit.

In a week, she will be a vicomtesse.

Most women would be honored to be given this title, to be marrying a rich and handsome man. Especially one who is as kind and gentlemanly as Vicomte Raoul de Chagny. Christine, however, felt a mix of trepidation and sadness as the day of her wedding slowly approached.

As a child, she had dreamed of marrying only for love... but circumstances have pushed her to settle for a marriage of convenience.

Her father, Gustave, was gravely ill. Fearing that Christine will be left with nothing after his death, he made a deal with the Vicomte, this gentle, noble young man whom he used to teach violin. Raoul looked up to Gustave and saw him as a father-figure, second only to his older brother Philippe. When the old man begged him to marry Christine and look after her, he could not refuse.

Christine accepted the Vicomte's proposal even as her heart yearned for another. She could not bear to disappoint her ailing papa by refusing to marry the man he had chosen, and so she tried to convince herself that she would grow to love him. After all, he was kind and he was gentle and he was a fairly agreeable man.

No matter how hard she tried, though, she could not keep thoughts of _him_ out of her mind. She was already in love with another, you see. Hopelessly in love with a Spirit who brought her life so much laughter and music and joy.

.

She was a girl of only seventeen when she met him. Her mother had just passed away, and she needed time alone to grieve. She walked aimlessly in the garden by her home, surrounding herself with the diverse and colorful plants, taking in the sight and scent of the peonies that had been her mother’s favorites. Whenever her grief threatened to overwhelm her, seeing the vibrant and fragrant flowers seemed to bring her peace.

Consumed with her thoughts, she did not notice that she was about to walk into a pond.

As her foot slipped and she nearly fell into the waters, a man—who had suddenly appeared as if by magic—caught her in his arms. For a while, she seemed frozen in shock, captivated by this mysterious masked man before her. But then he let her go, carefully setting her down on a flowerbed as though she were as precious and fragile as a porcelain doll.

“You _must_ be more careful, my dear,” the man said, voice as sweet as honey.

The girl looked up at him, eyes full of wonder, “Are you an angel?”

An amused but strained smile showed on his lips before he disappeared once more, his essence seeming to become one with the peonies on the ground.

From that day forward, she would visit the place where she met the Spirit every day, hoping that he would reveal himself once more. Even though he did not show up, she still sat by the bed of peonies and tell him about her day, share with him her feelings of grief and isolation.

For days, she would seek him out, only to be met with nothing but silence.

When she was on the verge of giving up, something inside her urged her to sing. It felt as though the flowers themselves were trying to send her a message. So, before leaving the garden, she let herself sing a solemn, melancholy tune. A lullaby that her mother used to sing to her whenever she was afraid. It was a calming, soothing melody, like a gentle breeze, a reminder of the life that exists beyond what the eye can see.

As soon as she finished her song, she stood and started walking back to her home. It was then that the Spirit burst from the flowers, eyes filled with tears, and applauded her beautiful voice.

“My dear, you have a voice that can make even the angels weep.”

.

At first, he seemed content only to listen as she spoke. But soon, he became comfortable enough to talk about himself as well.

He was the spirit of the peonies, immortal and alone. Beneath his mask hid a face that frightened all the other spirits of nature, forever dooming him to an eternity with no one but himself for company.

…until Christine came along.

They became the best of friends, the closest of confidantes. A grieving, friendless girl and a lonely flower spirit. Two beings with different minds and different bodies, but similar souls.

Their friendship spanned years and Christine found herself falling for the Spirit, but she dared not voice her true feelings out loud, fearing that she’d scare him away. Instead, she would relish in their music, embrace their strange friendship, and try to push away her fantasies of being the flower spirit’s bride.

.

As the years passed, her father grew sicklier. He tried to hide his relentless coughing fits and bloodstained handkerchiefs, but she was an observant girl. She tried to care for him even when he thought she couldn’t see.

When the doctor confirmed that he was not getting better, he sought to arrange a marriage for her. Raoul de Chagny seemed a perfect match. Someone she had known briefly during her childhood, a man with means and wealth, the Prince Charming of her fairytale storybooks.

Although she wished to love the man to whom she was betrothed, her heart yearned for the peonies in her mother’s garden, for the Spirit who cared for her and understood her even when no one else could.

One night, Christine slipped away into the gardens to tell him about her engagement. The Spirit remained silent as she talked to him about the Vicomte and how her father made him promise to take care of her after he passes away.

“I knew him as a child. He rescued my red scarf when it was blown away by the wind. Even then, he was a handsome boy,” she said with a soft smile.

Finally, the Spirit spoke, golden eyes seeming to stare deep into her soul, “And do you love him? Does he make you happy?”

She paused, unsure of how to respond. Although she wished to tell him about how much she wanted to be wed to him instead, she was afraid that he would rebuff her affections and ruin the special bond that they already shared. With a sigh, she replied, “I suppose… I could learn to. He is a good man.”

The Spirit nodded slowly, and the two of them sat in silence for the rest of their time together.

.

In three days, she will be a vicomtesse. But as she was busy with her wedding preparations, a sudden illness plagued her, leaving her weak and unable to stand.

Raoul hired the finest doctors to assess her condition, but none of them could identify her sickness. She tried to tell them about the terrible ache in her throat, but the pain made it impossible for her to speak.

The Vicomte and her father always made sure that someone was in her room, watching over her and tending to all her needs. But at night, when everyone was asleep, it was only then that she could bury her face in her pillows and allow her tears to fall. The pain in her throat had become unbearable and she tried to cough to relieve the soreness.

By morning, she would not wake. And the pillows by her side had been stained with blood and flower petals.

.

“What should I do? I cannot lose my only daughter,” Gustave tried to hold back his tears as he paced the room.

Raoul felt helpless as he sat by her bed and touched her cold hand. Philippe stood by the door, arms crossed, not saying a single word.

Meg, a young servant of the de Chagny’s, listened in on the conversation from behind the door. She was the one who had been tasked to look after Christine night and day. Before Christine became ill, the two women had become quite close, often chatting about various details about the upcoming wedding. Occasionally, Christine had also trusted her with her true feelings and doubts about her upcoming marriage.

As she listened to Gustave and the de Chagnys discuss Christine’s ailment, how the young woman had seemingly coughed up flower petals, she suddenly remembered something that Christine had told her once. She decided to step forward and tell the men what she knew.

Cautiously opening the door, Meg peeked her head in, “Monsieur, I don’t mean to intrude on your private conversation… but I think I know how we can help Christine. I think her sickness might not be an ailment of the body but of the heart.”

She proceeded to tell them about Christine’s nightly visits to the garden. Meg did not know what she did there, but she knew it had something to do with the peonies. She recalled how she had asked Christine what kind of flowers she preferred for her wedding bouquet, assuming that she would want roses or tulips or hydrangeas. With a melancholy, wistful look in her eyes, Christine simply said that she wanted no other flower except the peony.

“They were her mother’s favorite flowers,” Gustave stated calmly, “Back when my dear Agnes was still alive, she would tell Christine stories about the spirits of the flowers. Beings who looked after nature and the humans who took care of them.”

Philippe scoffed at the idea, “What? Do you all think that a _flower cursed her_?”

“No,” Raoul glared at his brother before softening his gaze and turning to Gustave, “she loves those flowers… and I think they love her back.”

.

It was Raoul’s idea to pluck some peonies from the garden, put them in a vase, and place them by Christine’s bedside. Philippe called him foolish for believing in fairytales, but Raoul did not care. He only wanted her to feel better, no matter the cost. Gustave approved of the idea, and he tearfully embraced Raoul, proclaiming that he couldn’t have asked for a better son.

For days, they waited for a miracle to happen. And soon enough, Christine awoke, healthier than ever. Meg had fallen asleep watching her, only to be awakened by the sound of her softly singing to the flower by her bedside. The beautiful red peonies seemed to be responding to her song, swaying to her magnificent lullaby.

As soon as Christine had fully recovered, Gustave was eager for the wedding to continue as planned. Although she did not seem too excited about the prospect, Christine agreed, knowing that it was Raoul’s idea to bring her beloved peony to her bedside.

The night before the wedding, she held the vase of peonies in her arms and wept. Suddenly, the Spirit appeared before her, wiping the tears from her eyes.

“Please do not cry, my dear. I cannot bear to see you cry.”

“I don’t want to get married,” she sobbed.

“Do you not love him, your fiancé?”

“It’s not that I don’t love Raoul… it’s just… I love someone else more.”

“Christine, do you mean…”

“Yes,” she smiled up at him, “I love you. I’ve _always_ loved you.”

He quickly turned away from her, tears streaming from his golden eyes, “We cannot be together.”

“Why not?”

“He can give you so much. You will be a vicomtesse, live a life of comfort and luxury.”

“All I need to be happy is music and laughter and _you_.”

“ _Christine_ ,” he cried as he cupped her face with his large hands, “I am dying… dying of love.”

“What do you mean?” Christine whispered as the tears freely streamed down her cheeks.

He knelt before her and took her hands in his.

“I am dying of love for you, my dear girl. When you were struck with a sickness of the heart, I knew that I was at fault. I did not realize how you felt for me until it was too late, and you had suffered because you did not believe that I loved you. But I knew I could save you.

When you were asleep, I kissed your forehead. You looked as beautiful as if you had been dead… but when I kissed you, I gave you my essence, my life, so that you may live in my stead.”

She could no longer keep her sobs quiet, and she held him as tight as she could, letting him rest his head on her chest, letting him feel her beating heart. Her tears flew from her eyes and down onto his head, trickling under his mask, mingling with his tears and flowing between his lips.

“Hush, sweet girl, do not shed any more tears for me. I made my choice to set you free. You deserve a living husband, not a Spirit.”

She tried to stifle her sobs as she showered his forehead with kisses. “What can I do then?”

He looked up at her and wiped away her tears, “Would you sing for me? A requiem of sorts. If the last thing I hear before I leave this world is your voice, then I would die happy.”

And so, she sang. Even as her grief overwhelmed her, she knew she could not deny him his final wish. She again sang the lullaby that her mother taught her, the song he first heard her sing. Her one reminder that life exists beyond what the eye can see.

.

Meg found Christine the next day, lying awake in her bed, cradling the vase of peonies in her arms. The once-vibrant flowers were now wilted and lifeless, crisp brown petals dropping onto the floor.

She tried to comfort Christine, to tell her how sorry she was for her loss. But Christine only smiled softly and said, “I have known so much grief… but also so much love. I do not regret a thing.”


End file.
